Fixing your past is like trying to pick up broken glass bare handed. It’s already destroyed and doing anything about it is just going to leave you bloody. To this day I can’t help but feel as if I’m not sure what I am really doing with myself. I wouldn’t coin it as melancholia, I don’t have that acrid taste of regret heavy in my mouth either.
“Please, you don’t have to do th–“
Struggling to stand upright, I have to admit I’m shocked to find him alive after that leap.
I put a bullet in the only good leg he’s got left. Stubborn bastard tried to run, jumping clear out the window when I had him dead-to-rights. I’d respect that, if I still understood how to give that kind of thing. Now? Now he’s offering the keys to the castle, begging for lenience or mercy. There’s no sand left in the hour glass, though. It’s not my job to grant consideration, just closure. Ironic that those with a pension or notoriety for cruelty are the most vocals when begging for their life. I’ll admit that it does provoke my ire but I don’t usually act out of anger. It’s sloppy.
“God DAMNIT, you son-of-a-bitch, do you know who I am?”
Megalomaniac type then. There is five stages to grief and everyone processes them in a different order. This one jumped from bargaining to anger, I’d bet denial will come before acceptance but people surprise.
Ego is a fragile thing, that much I can relate too; hey, I’m a man and we’re ninety percent ego. I wounded this one with my practiced stoicism and unresponsiveness, sure as the bone jutting out of his left leg or the bullet-hole in the right one injured him. I breath in the cold air to try and quell the fire burning in my chest. Too often people think I’m vacant of any urges, any emotion; but you don’t become detached by happenstance. I’m the product of arduous training; mental, physical and emotional conditioning. It’s not as if I can’t relate to this man, but the compassion, the empathy which might stall a hand such as mine has long since been beaten out of me. I’ve been at it too long for my heart to start hammering, but that doesn’t mean the thrill of the hunt has diminished. There’s no better sport than man.
“Wait, just .. Wait,” It seemed he’s gone from angry, resigned and back to bartering. The blood is pooling beneath him, a macabre backdrop to the grim scene being played out. I still haven’t spoken.
Not that I can’t, or wouldn’t, but there’s nothing to say and I find such a failing in words.
Words, beautiful as they can be, are just a passing breeze; they fall over and around you and yet once you open your eyes again they are simply gone. The false promise of reprieve on a brutally scorching mid-afternoon day. People celebrate the poet or artist, yet whenever I see one of true worth I do not envy but instead mourn for ( maybe with would be more accurate ) them. They are crying, crying so beautifully that we encourage them to continue for our own morose entertainment.
I know someone like that, once. So beautiful that we all stripped her bare, raped her of that brilliant purity — everyone had to have their pound of flesh, even me, until she was broken and ragged.
Carved to the bone and begging to give us more, if only it would make us happy.
“You don’t understand, I’ve got a — ” That interjection snapped me out of the pensive stupor, but the rest fell on deaf ears. Funny, this was a man of lavish lifestyle, affluent wealth that surrounded himself with only the best of the best. An extravagant, monumental sarcophagus prepared as if he’s some kind of fallen royalty no doubt. Kingpin-type do fancy themselves in such a flattering light.
Now? He’s begging, crawling across blood, shit and grime. The foul smell is a heavy taste on my tongue, but the repugnance doesn’t bother me; I find it fitting.
This poor bastard is probably going to try and tell me about the family I’ve thoroughly researched.
The wife is a boozey bitch, the oldest kid a budding sadist and the youngest I feel might just be better off without her father being the primary example of functionality in this world. It might be justification, too. I’m not above trying to reason with what it is I do. Still, the investigation was kind of clear cut and if I still put any stock in a conscious this mark might make me come out feeling relatively clean. Doesn’t matter, my conscious is long dead.
It’s just what I am.
Shame on him, really. One look at me and if you’re in this life you know what I am. They say Luck is a lady and this misogynistic prick never came across a skirt he wouldn’t get heavy handed with after a cocktail or two. She’ll not grant clemency here. No saving grace. No fateful intervention.
The cackle in the warring sky was foreboding, but I never put much stock or thought into symbolism.
The clap of thunder is the lifting of a figurative floodgate that brought a literal downpour.
“Whatever they are paying you, whatever they got on you, I can do better; I can help.”
Used cars’ men smile swept over a badly bruised disposition. To lend credit to the frightening image I cut ( yes, I am aware of how menacing I look ) I don’t think I’ve blinked yet. The rain is like daggers, colder than a barren tundra; cold as the devils heart.
The next shot is muffled by another roar of thunder. This one put the prick out of his misery.
I leave my calling card in the aftermath. I want there to be no mistake, that all the bad in the city is finally being hunted .. Hunted by something worse than them.
“The justifications of men who kill should always be heard with skepticism, said the monster.”
Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls